The Harlequin's Regret
by MissScorp
Summary: Harley finds herself thinking about her puddin' and wondering how her life has come to this. One-Shot. Harley Quinn. T for suggestive themes of domestic violence, and sexual innuendo.


**Disclaimer: **I own nothing but for my general story concept and theme...

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_The night before the Arkham Asylum incident..._

She watched the man lift his hand to the doc's cheek. It was only the slightest of movements, merely a subtle turn of his wrist really, but it was enough that it allowed him to graze his knuckles along the curve of that silky flesh.

She swore that she could feel those knuckles skimming along her skin, electrifying dead nerve endings and filling her with a longing sensation that had almost been forgotten.

And she ached as a tidal wave of memories crashed within her breast, unleashing a torrent of mental snapshots depicting lovers past who had touched_her _as if she was a delicate flower.

She watched as the man used his fingers to oh-so-gently cup the doc's chin. Those long and graceful dactyls barely closed upon that creamy flesh, but it was enough of a grip that he was able to lift her head up and peer down into the doc's eyes.

She found herself thinking back upon the one man-the only man in fact-who had ever looked at _her _with that tenderness, with that burning desire and need, with all that _love _shining in his eyes.

And she felt a deep yearning form in her heart, a type of craving to look in her puddin's sparklin' verdant gaze and see it burning with the emotions that lived in this man's scorching blue gaze.

She watched as he lowered his head and slowly took the doc's lips with his own. There was no mashing of lips here, or grinding of teeth against tender flesh, oh no. This was most definitely a lover's kiss, meant to stir the soul and flutter the heart.

She found she could hardly remember the last time when a man had kissed her and it wasn't meant as a reminder of what her place was, as a method of humiliation, or as a revolting token of appreciation.

And it made her hunger to again feel that flame, that slow burn that began deep in the belly before spreading outwards to consume her in a white hot burst of want and need.

But she'd never again have a lover touch her as if she was made of the finest glass.

Or convey his undying love and affection for her while staring deeply into her eyes.

Or warm her heart and soul with a kiss so sweet and gentle that it made her want to cry.

Because she'd given all that up when she'd allowed herself to fall hopelessly in love with a murdering slime ball. She'd forsaken her happiness, her wants and needs, her own identity in order to become what he wanted her to become: his Harlequin. By placing her heart as well as her body into the hands of this pasty-faced sociopath, she'd ensured she would never again know the bittersweet taste of love or the wondrous rapture of romance. She was nothing but a sex toy to Mr. J, a dolly that he could get rid of once he'd grown tired of playing with her.

A dolly he had thrown away countless times before.

The arrow that pierced the Harlequin's cold heart was one that was poisoned with regret.

_How could I have let this happen_? she wondered as she lifted her hands to wipe away the moisture that rolled slowly down her painted face. _Even I don't understand _how_ exactly this happened, _she thought with a trace of bitterness_._

_I wasn't a doormat when I first met him. I wasn't a big lump of clay just waiting for him to come and mold. I came from a relatively normal family, as functional as any other family manages to be really. I was well-educated, independent, on the road to success. There'd been men in my life, some that I wasn't as serious about as I was Guy, but all were normal, healthy relationships. But then I met Mr. J and something went wrong. Because suddenly there I was, manipulated and trapped within this mad love affair. Allowing myself to be humiliated and degraded._

_And _abused.

And who was to blame for every bit of her unhappiness, her misery and self-hatred? a voice in her head asked. Batman? She laughed softly, a low, keening sound that drew the attention of the doc and the man who was with her. She couldn't blame the Bats. Not when it was her that had so completely ruined her own life. And not when every time she turned around that it was the Bats who was offering her the way out of this madness.

_How often has the Bats said he'd help me and I just laughed in his face? Or responded by unleashing a barrage of bullets upon him_? she asked herself. Hundreds. Thousands. She wasn't sure. All she knew was that she'd denied him at every turn, kicked him in the teeth and tossed his offer back in his face. _And he still offers to help me_.

She wasn't sure which of them the crazy one was:

_Batman_ for continuing to offer to help her even after all her refusals and rejections; or _her_ for always turning his offers of help down.

She was beginning to believe that the answer was _her_.

She glanced up and saw that the doc and her boyfriend-and damned if he didn't look a little like that Robin her Mr. J thought he beat to death with a crowbar - were approaching where she sat waiting to be escorted back to her cell. His arm was around the doc's waist, his hand resting lightly upon the curve of her hip. She bit her lip, tasted fear and shame. And a terrible wreath of envy. Oh, how she wished that there was a man such as this one to love her! How happy she'd be if she had a man like this! A man that was tall and darkly handsome. Who was surrounded by an aura of sophisticated danger; dripped with enigmatic intrigue. A man, she decided, hazarding a look into that electric blue gaze, who was capable of touching his woman without hurting her, of loving her without needing to humiliate her, of holding her without breaking her.

"You'se a real lucky gal, doc," she said when the two passed her on their way towards the exit. At first she figured they would just continue on past her, ignoring her as most of the orderlies, guards and Asylum docs tended to do. But then the doc stopped and turned, enveloping her within a gaze that sparked with warmth and compassion, and which was ripe with sympathy and understanding.

"You're right, Miss Quinn," she said in a voice like velvet. Soft and smooth. "I _am_ lucky. My man might have a few quirks and kinks to him, and a helluva temper at times. But he's _never _beat me."

"And I never will," the man stated in a voice that was like single-malt whiskey. It skittered along Harley's nerve endings, fraying them further. "Real men don't need to get their rocks off by knockin' their woman around."

The doc crouched down so she could look beyond the girlish pigtails tipped in florescent pink and the garishly made up face to the fractured woman hidden beneath. She knew about the bruises that the powder was hiding, that were lurking below that naughty nurse getup, and which were imprinted upon this woman's very soul. She stared into those tortured aqua pools and felt a kinship with this woman that went beyond them merely being women, the same age, or doctors in the field of Psychology. And said;

"I cannot make you decide when enough is enough, Harley. And I can't make you admit that you want out. You've gotta do that for yourself. But," she reached into her jacket pocket and took out a business card that she pressed into her hand. "If you _ever _reach the point where you've had enough and wanna ask someone for help? You call me. Day or night. Rain or shine. Call," she smiled gently. "I will come. And I _will _help."

_I will come. And I will help_. They were the same words the Bats always said to her. Words she always refuted, scoffed at, reacted to with violence. But looking at that card, seeing the name that was imprinted upon it and then looking up into that kind and understanding face, Harley realized just how easy it'd be to reach out-to finally ask someone to help her get away from the monster she'd devoted so much of herself too. But there was still niggles of suspicion tugging at her, and a small kernel of doubt deep within her that begged her to ask this woman one, single question: _why_?

"I gotsa question for ya doc," the broken woman said in a small voice. "How come you're being so nice ta me? I ain't never been nothin' but trouble for ya's."

"Because," was said on a sigh. "I know what it is like to find yourself trapped in this kind of hell. And to find yourself being abused by the very devil, himself."

"You's?"

Harley heard the disbelief in her voice, and even while it shamed her, she did not apologize for it. It just didn't seem possible to her that this pampered princess could have ever been shattered by physical abuse.

"Believe it or not, Harley," the doc said quietly. "But I know all about the pain and the agony, the fear and the desperation, the shame and the humiliation that you're feeling right now. Because for thirteen years I was locked within an opulent prison that was a never ending circle of abuse. My childhood was one where every night was a new nightmare and every morning coated in fresh blood and tears."

"How'd you get out?"

_How'd you survive_? was what she really wanted to ask.

"I got out the night that my father finally went too far and murdered my mother," was the soft reply.

Shock washed over Harley like a bucket of cold water. She stared into those green eyes, read the open sincerity and the heartfelt honesty. And saw that this woman knew, understood. _And she ain't judging me for it._

Tears threatened. Were ruthlessly rejected. She'd cried for that clown enough. She'd suffered enough at his hands. She told herself that she only had to tell this woman that she was ready, that she was done, and it would be all over. She'd be whisked away to a place where there was no more pain, no more humiliation and degradation, no more regrets. And no more...

"Th...thanks," she said slowly. "But..."

"You're not ready," the doc said, nodding slightly.

"No."

The word was a shame-laced whisper. But the doc understood. She didn't like it, Harley could see that, but she understood. And accepted that this was how it was going to be for the moment.

"You will be ready one day," she said as she rose to her feet. "And when you are, I will be there to help."

"Thank you," Harley said again.

And she found that she meant it. She was appreciative of everything that the doc had said, of everything that she'd offered. It was so rare for anybody in this place to show her so much as an ounce of compassion. And even less that she'd find herself almost willing to accept it.

"You're welcome." The doc then turned to one of the guards that was standing nearby. "Hey Frank, can you escort Miss Quinn back to her cell?"

"Certainly, Doctor Kean."

And so Harley was led through the Intensive Treatment Center to where her cell was located, deep within the bowels of Arkham Asylum. As she walked she thought over everything she'd seen and heard that night. And came to the conclusion that she definitely deserved better than a selfish, narcissistic, murderous, psychopathic clown.

_No more_, she vowed as she entered her cell. _I'm done with being his punching bag, his sex toy, his Harley. I'm through with it, and with him._ But then she saw the rose-red of course, waiting on her pillow. There was a handwritten note next to it that read simply;

_See you tonight!_

_J._

Tears spilled down her cheeks as she snatched up the rose and clutched it to her chest. And the business card, the doc and her newfound resolve were all forgotten in less than ten seconds.


End file.
